


Nothing to say

by HyphenAlien



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23768305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyphenAlien/pseuds/HyphenAlien
Summary: Sam was not planning on getting drunk. He’d gone down that road before. Not that he could ever get used to the loss of his brother, but he was tired with the endless repetition of the same mistakes. He would drink one glass, maybe two, and then, he would try to go back to sleep. Maybe he would doze off right here, on the couch. Whatever happened, the nightmares would come – Lucifer’s true face, Jack’s chest torn open by a bloody hole, Dean’s lips crooked in the shape of a cruel smile… and Sam would quickly awaken, and live through one more day, feeling more tired than the one that had come before.
Kudos: 4





	Nothing to say

**Author's Note:**

> This work is set some time before the beginning of season 14.  
> Enjoy :) And do review if you have the time, I'll appreciate it a lot!

The amber liquid swirled around tantalizingly, catching a glint of light here and there, until Sam raised the glass to his lips. He took a sip, and the alcohol quickly burned along his throat. He distractedly read the bottle’s label, for the seventh time. It sat, monolithic, upon the small table.

The Hunter gazed around the room. It was his first time back in “the Dean Cave”, since his brother – since – Sam took a larger gulp. The taste in his mouth was slightly bitter. But no bitterness could rival with his own. There were no tears in Sam’s eyes, as he stared at the empty space where a cursed television had once stood. No tears; only the painfully customary clenched heart.

Sam was not planning on getting drunk. He’d gone down that road before. Not that he could ever get used to the loss of his brother, but he was tired with the endless repetition of the same mistakes. He would drink one glass, maybe two, and then, he would try to go back to sleep. Maybe he would doze off right here, on the couch. Whatever happened, the nightmares would come – Lucifer’s true face, Jack’s chest torn open by a bloody hole, Dean’s lips crooked in the shape of a cruel smile… and Sam would quickly awaken, and live through one more day, feeling more tired than the one that had come before.

He knew what the day had been like. It had been so for over a week. Sam hadn’t collapsed, broken down in tears or drowned in a bottle yet; he found that encouraging.

His beard was growing. So were the pits under his eyes. One lead led to another, then another, and another, and it all amounted to a good old pile of nothing, but he was relentless. So was Castiel. So were Jack and Maggie, Ketch and Mary (somewhere along the way, he had stopped automatically thinking of her as _Mom_ ), Rowena and Charlie, Bobby and all of the Apocalypse Hunters… They all kept on, and followed Sam, which he could only be thankful for. None of them ever pointed out that, despite all of their work and exhaustion, they didn’t seem any closer to getting Dean back. For that, he was even more thankful. There was a time when he would not have cared, when he would’ve gone out solitarily to find his brother, when he would have punched any of them in return for their help. Those days were gone. Today, their support meant the world to him. The black hole of despair that Dean’s absence always left could not be filled by their presence; but they relieved him of some of the load. For the first time in longer than he would care to admit, Sam Winchester didn’t feel well and truly alone.

Still. The moments when the bottle called to him weren’t rare. He tilted his glass pensively. He had promised to himself to remain sober. That oath mainly held up because of the glimmer of hope that, maybe, tomorrow would be the day when a breakthrough would change everything.

There was a soft knock, on the door he’d left slightly ajar.

“Sam?”

He had heard the hesitant steps, and recognized Cas before he even spoke.

“What’s up, Cas?” he said warily.

“May I come in?” the angel asked, ever polite.

“Sure.”

Sam stood up. These days, no matter how long his legs were, or how thick his arms, he felt small.

Cas stood, his arms awkwardly hanging by his body. He looked tired, as well. His vessel had aged, since they first met. His eyes, however, were more profound than ever. They shared the same pain, same grief, same lassitude and determination. In a way, after all, they, too, were brothers.

“Are you all right?” the angel asked.

He wasn’t asking for the automatic answer that he gave all the others. He was asking for the truth; and even if the Hunter didn’t give it to him, those piercing blue eyes would see right through his lies.

So, Sam shrugged and emptied his glass.

“Not really,” he admitted. “But neither are you, huh?”

“I suppose not,” conceded Cas.

Sam turned his back to him, to put his glass down next to the barely-touched bottle.

“We’re never _really_ all right,” he sighed.

He moved towards the door, but stopped before he left, facing his friend.

“I’ll be fine, though,” he said, the shadow of a smile on his lips. “I just need to get Dean back.”

“We will,” nodded Cas.

“Then, we’ll be fine.”

Sam patted the angel’s shoulder, and left. The nightmares came, as they always did; but he knew them better than his oldest friends. A Winchester needed more to stop fighting.


End file.
